


And Palm To Palm Is Holy Palmer's Kiss

by CallMeBombshell



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all because of her nail polish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Palm To Palm Is Holy Palmer's Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt: [_Rose/Ten; pink_](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/142212.html?thread=2251652#t2251652) at the [Ficathon](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/142212.html).

It's all because of her nail polish.

He's been teaching her how to fly the TARDIS. Well, trying to teach her. Well, that'd been his intention, anyway, before he'd gotten distracted. He blamed her hands. He'd had to keep repositioning them (too many buttons and switches and wheels and spinny things that don't actually do anything at all), and sure, he could just tell her what to do, but it's so much easier to just show her.

Besides, it gives him a fantastic excuse to examine her hands; long, slender fingers and bitten-down nails, nevertheless painted with rosy pink polish, dutifully reapplied after every adventure because, as she tells him once when he asks, if he's going to have her running all over time and space, she's going to make sure she looks good doing it. There are smudges of pink on the console where she likes to sit in his chair and watch him while she waits for the polish to dry; he tries to picture the console clean of pink smudges and finds that he can't.

"So it's this one, then?" she asks, and he shakes his himself a bit, realising he's gotten distracted again. Rose is pointing at a glowing blue button next to the one she needs to press. He smiles, placing his hand over hers.

"No," he says, moving their hands

(somewhere in between the blue glowing button and the one two inches over marked with a red circle, he fingers slip between hers and he finds himself staring at her hands again, smooth skin and short nails and a smudge of pink on the side of her thumb)

until they're where they're supposed to be. "It's this one." He presses it with her and the TARDIS revs, but it's lost in the way she smiles at him and grips his hand harder, nails pressing into his skin.


End file.
